


The Horse and the Well

by WrittenTales



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Difficult Decisions, Internal Conflict, Love/Hate, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-05-24
Updated: 2017-05-24
Packaged: 2018-11-04 10:00:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,761
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10988601
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WrittenTales/pseuds/WrittenTales
Summary: Five times Porthos whispers his love for Aramis and one time Aramis shouts his.Aramis, a poor scholar priest in training, fell from grace. He finds himself on the streets of the Cour des Miracles, mired in the sin his masters tried so hard to protect him from. Porthos, orchestrates this evil within him and Aramis knows this, but he ignores that feeling, because somewhere inside him, he feels something deeper for Porthos. But how can he live with breaking that giant beating heart in order to save his own?





	The Horse and the Well

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Lady_Neve](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lady_Neve/gifts).



> This has been long overdue, I'm so sorry! My futile aims for perfection held me back...and my laziness :)
> 
> Lady_Neve, thank you so much for prompting me and apologizes for my lack of diligence, if anyone can see, this happens to be a trend. But your comments are always genuine and I'm so elated to finally do this for you. I wanted this and the idea to be the best that it could be. I hope you and all enjoy.

i.

**At the core of all anger is a need that is not being fulfilled.**

Aramis gazed upon the scene from atop the court walls with a heavy heart. As the round of the most well-nourished and robust men of the court ran in droves to help with the day’s bounty, Aramis watched as the women and children crowded the streets in their ragged garbs and ripped bonnets, to steal a glance at what their King had secured in store for all its inhabitants.

The sight of the first crate entering through the gates had the lyre players strumming, cheers beginning to flood the streets as colorful skirts began twirling, twisting in the stagnant wind. Colors of the flurried dancers contrasted amongst the brown corrosion and black rot of the brick road. Tambourines tapped, while women sung with their show voices yet were accompanied with straggled back vocals. Aramis felt alienated from this happy scene, confused towards this lump in his throat as his contemplated this…euphoria. Only when the King goes out and plunders himself does the court erupt into such glee, and to see such blind happiness should coax Aramis, but it disgusts him.

Crate after crate, barrel after barrel, the bounty was concernedly large. Large enough to be noticeable that is. Such immense cargo has the possibility of reaching King Louis’ ear, if not, actually belonging to him. About twice has Aramis seen a thieving this careless, both concluding in hefty consequences. And the King of the Court understood this perfectly well.

Actually, speaking of the devil, here comes your majesty himself.

The King enters with a long, foreboding shadow, robed in brown trousers and a deep gorgeous blue shirt, adorned with a neutral, Indian-like shawl. His proud, young face brings more light and hope to the delighted citizens. His arrival brings forth a wave of women, who fight to give his fine cheeks a smooch, giggling when their lips touch their “royal sovereign.”

_“No other can compare to our King!”_ They shout, jumping up in ecstasy.

Bravo, they can all live to thieve and agonize another day, of course.  Such a joyous occasion. Though frankly, Aramis was getting rather tired of all this fabricated gladness. He knows they are not truly happy for something like their King’s safe return or the living that are currently marching through the streets. Instead they act senseless over the fact that their daily earnings are now hand-fed to them double-fold. 

Horrific would be the day the King returns from a mission with nothing to offer them.

“Ho there!” The king shouts, extending a hand towards Aramis from the crowd of women.

Aramis begrudgingly steps down from the post, walking down the old wooden stairs before jumping over an old drunk who decided to claim the bottom as his bed. He waits patiently by the stairway, refusing to acknowledge the young boys who keep crossing in front of him to enter the storehouse down the lane. Yet he watches as the King tries to fight his way out of the crowd of women, who at his delicate demand for the lack of their presence, begin to disperse to continue on with their songs and frolic.

The king opens his arms out wide as if to engulf Aramis in an embrace, however, his large hands end up landing and shaking Aramis’ shoulders. Shaking him as if he were trying to resurrect the elation inside him. “Today’s a good day!” He laughs.

“Until the real King comes knocking upon our gates.” Aramis points out. Watching the glint of accomplishment fade from his eyes causes Aramis to feel a tinge of guilt, but sometimes bluntness achieves the right result. “Porthos, must I always remind you to be careful?”

Porthos pecks his lips to ease the tension, “And must I always remind you Aramis, to live in the moment?” Porthos looks down at those big brown eye which try to ignore his efforts to enlighten the day, putting a hand down the pocket of his trousers to retrieve an object that has been itching at him all day for him to reveal. “It was a small trading company on the road into Paris, yet the boss was wearing this.” Porthos dangles a small golden crucifix on a thin chain in front of Aramis’ eyes.

“You like these things, yeah?” Porthos asks, reaching for Aramis’ crossed arms to open up his hand in receiving the gold chain. Aramis can see in the small golden loops, old blood that has encrusted between the links.

“Did you kill him? For his chain?” Aramis asked, subtly mortified. His hand holding the beauty, shook.

“Knocked him out, just like the others. Looked just in time to see it shining on his neck.” Porthos rushed to reassure, pushing Aramis’ fingers closed around it. Patting his hand softly, he says, “It’s clean.”

“Yeah, if you say it is.” Aramis frowns and he begins to walk away to who knows where, before Porthos grabbed his arm through his coat, hard.

“What is the matter with you? We have a good share collecting, I come baring gifts, yet you mope around like I kicked your dog or some shit like that.” Porthos pulls, trying to get Aramis to look back at him. Though honestly, Aramis couldn’t find the answer to how he felt; all he knew was that he didn’t feel like himself. For a long time.

“I’m not sure what I’m feeling. Perhaps I just need some rest, it’s been a long day.” Aramis gave Porthos the dignity of showing his face, his respect. He brings up a hand to lay it upon Porthos’ cheek, which Porthos presses it harder to his skin with his own hand, caressing the delicate flesh. Aramis strokes the sensitive skin below Porthos’ left eye, “I’ll see you tonight.” Aramis promises.

“Are you sure you’re alright?” Porthos asks again, more for his sake than Aramis’ own. Days like these, Porthos thinks leaving Aramis to his own devices is more worrisome than the Spaniard likes to let on. “Maybe I should come with you, so you aren’t alone?”

“In my dreams Porthos? You can’t follow me there.” Aramis smirks.

Porthos grasps Aramis’ departing hand, giving it a warm kiss on the knuckles. “But you can bring my heart along with you.” He whispers against them.

Aramis, speechless, lets out a breathless laugh. “I’ll be sure to do that.” He feels his throat constricting once again, and he, not so, blatantly pulls his hand away and quickly turns away to walk towards Porthos’ crevice. Briefly, contemplating how he feels, he wonders if going there may be the correct choice. Though he considers the argument that may ensue on the morrow if he were to actually sleep in a separate bed.

In a paradoxical observation, whilst dwelling in a cesspool of absent values and morale, Porthos had an unpredictable approach towards expressing what stood personal to him. Sometimes the line was so thick or thin, that Aramis was always cautious as to where to cross it. Besides, Aramis was in no mood for misconstrued quarrels, as it surely wasn’t Porthos’ fault that this forlorn dread refuses to leave him be.

It was himself that was the problem, and his place in the world. And it can only be him who can find the solution to where his true complications lie.

So Aramis sighs, maneuvering his way through the dozens of small hordes of people, onto the underground where he’ll rest for the afternoon, and hopefully, through the night.

 

* * *

 

The day had long since turned to night, and Aramis laid wide awake underneath the sheets as he expected. No matter how much his eyes begged for closure, his brain refused to shut down. Thoughts a mile a minute ran through his consciousness, memories which he had buried resurfaced.

In the dark, cold, silence of the room, sometimes Aramis yearns for sound. Even the scurry of rats in the dirt walls would suffice compared to this noiseless inferno. He never understood how Porthos could sleep in this cave, without any semblance of life except for his own breath.

If he chose to listen closely, he could maybe hear how fast his heart was beating. Hear the sound of blood sloshing through his veins, detect the direction of its flow, the echo of the vibration against flush skin. How the sounds of the body reminded him so much of death, and the fragile barrier between life and the world beyond. Too much reality resounded in this room. It reminded Aramis of how much of nothing his life is, and that confirmation that he will become nothing **here**.

He cannot achieve anything surrounded by people who don’t understand self-worth. No one understands honor here, faith, loyalty, and most definitely the value of purpose. Was it too much to ask that life would mean something for a change? That there can be more to living than surviving, only to realize you’re just waiting to die. Waiting for something better to come along.

What were he to gain in the next life if he doesn’t conjure a good reason to be accepted into paradise? Of course, in the bible it states that God would accept the helpless and the thieves if they repent for their sins. But Aramis doesn’t feel comfortable enough to confront the presence of the almighty with nothing to show for it. No valor, no journey, no ambition, no purpose, no _worth_. It appeared unfulfilling. Lackluster. A waste of a life.

His father taught him the art of tolerance at a young, ripe age. Used to bring him along hunting when he wasn’t occupied at the church. Always used to tell him that hunting required patience. And when patience is lost, the target is lost. That a good hunter knows when the time was right to shoot, he just had to endure until his window of golden opportunity opened up.

Perhaps he was in the transition of waiting for his golden opportunity. But he’ll never have the chance to recognize it unless he knew _where_ he was looking.

Aramis rises quickly on the bed, the covers falling down his naked chest to pool around his waist, at the sudden sound of the door to the chamber widening open only to reveal Porthos.

He was drunk, considering the unsteadiness of his gait and the insistent coughing of what Aramis assumed to be his stomach rejecting the alcohol. As he comes closer, Aramis can tell he also smells of cheap perfume, most likely from the whores.

Aramis turns around quickly on his side, keeping his gaze on his wall instead of Porthos, not even uttering a word to ask of his well-being. Yet Porthos still manages to croak his name in the darkness, feeling around as if to find him or maybe, just sturdy ground.

“Aramis?” He repeats, coming towards the bed though Aramis pretends he’s asleep. When Porthos comes across his body, he falls back on the bed, groaning due to the pounding in his head. “I know you aren’t asleep.” He sighs.

“How?” He answers after a while.

“Your thoughts are too loud.” Porthos responds. “And you snore.” His hand then reaches over to caress Aramis’ thigh, rubbing that portion of body up and down, but Aramis swats his hand away.

“You’re angry?” Porthos asks, sheepishly. But Aramis just scoffs and rolls his eyes, unnoticeable to Porthos.

“What you do with your life is your business.” Aramis said, stroking the cover with the hand that wasn’t beneath his head. “But perhaps next time, when you decide to lay with whores, stay where you are.”

“And that’s why I love you, for your well concealed passionate fury.” Porthos laughs, wrapping his entire clothed body around a naked Aramis. He proceeds to kiss the underside of his chin and his neck, teasing him in glee. “You really would care if I died tomorrow.” He purrs with his gruffly voice.

“Bless the day you actually take me seriously.” Aramis grunts, but decides not to fight Porthos in his drunken splendor. Usually, Porthos reverts to becoming stubborn as a rock, listening, but never truly listening. It’s rather difficult to get your point across when the only time he is able to speak with Porthos, is when he running off to attend a gathering or plastered out of his wits. It’s slowly but surely getting tiring, having to sit still for his entertainment, only for him to pass out after it all, and the cycle restarts, every single day it seems. “You could at least bathe, before I regurgitate.” Aramis elbows Porthos in the ribs, hoping that it would get his attention. His god-awful smell was overwhelming, and Aramis didn’t want it seeping into the sheets.

“It’s the least I could do.” Porthos grumbles, mocking Aramis voice.

“I agree.” Aramis retorted, fixing the straw padded, burlap, cushion beneath his head when Porthos rises.

As Porthos begins to undress, a sudden thought enters his fogged mind. “Are you wearing it?” Aramis’ fingers shoot up to the absence around his neck, rolling the tip around the dip in the clavicle where the pedant would have rested.

But Porthos doesn’t need his reply, he can see it slightly tethering on a small branch peeking through the red dirt, beside the large cracked mirror. As he stares at the fine-looking necklet, this unknown jabbing pain in his heart caused more discomfort than he initially thought it would arise. He had expected this, when he stood over the unconscious merchant with conflicted hesitation. But he took it because he wanted Aramis to realize that he really did care for him and what he felt. Though all this sensitivity and diligence that came with loving Aramis swiftly became a task Porthos was beginning to understand he was failing at.

He loved Aramis, sincerely, but somewhere, something went wrong. With them. And maybe Porthos wasn’t grasping the signs, but if it meant something other than mending this hole between them, he’ll keep refusing.

Porthos takes the necklace off the twig, he tells Aramis to sit up, multiple times…when Aramis proves resistant. When Aramis doesn’t rise to Porthos’ speed, Porthos holds his arm, pulling him up faster. “Wear it. You’ll get used to it.” His voice is almost on the verge of begging.

He puts the necklace around Aramis’ neck speedily in the dark, his sharp eyes having adapted to such long periods in the darkness of hovels. But this was just another difference between the two lovers. Aramis was used to the light, couldn’t live without the sun shining on his skin. He couldn’t stand the claustrophobia of the black gloomy shadows. So yet once again, another fault he was forced to tolerate in this place.

But something nabbed at his mind, poisoning his mood and his night, and though he decided against bringing it up to Porthos, his mouth is faster than he can stop the word from leaving them. “Would you ever steal from the church? If you had to chance?” Aramis mumbles.

Porthos doesn’t say a word, instead, he sits behind him, twiddling his fingers. “Answer me.” Aramis tries again. “Lie to me, if you have to. Anything to keep me from ripping this fabrication that you foolishly fetched for me for the sake of yourself, from my neck.”

“You’re making it seem like I’m the bad guy.”

“…Occasionally, the line between good and evil is hard to perceive within the both of us.”

Porthos clutches the back of Aramis’ neck, paralyzing him for seconds in a white wash of fright. “I love you so much and you refuse to see that. No matter what I do. What will make you fucking happy?” He whispers against his ear. “Must I carve my heart out? Is that acceptable enough?”

After a few moments of silence, Aramis responds, “You still didn’t answer my question.”

Porthos lets go of his neck with a shove, the drunken haze almost departs, almost leaving his entire mind sober. “If I don’t deserve an answer, neither do you. And fucking sell it for all I care.” Porthos sneers, returning to the basin beside the door, placing his hands on either side of the table, unintentionally looking at his reflection in the murky water.  

So Aramis lays back down, denying himself the want to stroke the sensitive spot behind his ears. He takes this escalated emotional outburst as a cowardly, affirmative, yes. Porthos has always cared more for the prize, and Aramis would have been a fool himself to say otherwise.


End file.
